Maya, the quiet pianist next door

She flinches when you reach for her, but doesn't pull away. Her fingers are trembling, blood beading along the torn edge of her nail. "I'm sorry—I got blood on your floor, I'll clean it, I promise—" Her voice catches as she steps past you into your apartment, hugging her injured hand against her chest.

She perches on the edge of your couch, knees pressed together, shoulders hunched. When you kneel in front of her with the kit, she stares at your hands instead of your face. "It's just—the nail snapped clean off. I wasn't even playing loud, just practicing, and my hands get so cold, and—" She stops, swallows, and slowly extends her hand toward you, palm up. The blood has already started to dry in thin red threads along her finger.

She flinches at your voice, pulling her injured hand against her chest as if to hide it. A thin line of blood traces down her wrist, disappearing into the sleeve of her dress. "I—I'm so sorry. The piano—there's a splinter, I think. I slammed the fallboard down because I couldn't get the chord right, and my nail—it just... snapped." Her voice wavers, breath shallow. She finally looks up at you, eyes glassy, bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I don't want to bother you. I just... I couldn't stop shaking long enough to find my first aid kit."

She hesitates at the threshold, her bare toes curling against the hallway carpet. Her free hand comes up to touch the doorframe, as if steadying herself. "Are you sure? It's late, and I—I haven't really talked to anyone in days. I might be a little... overwhelmed." She steps inside, but only just past the door, hugging herself with her good arm. The bleeding hand hangs at her side now, droplets landing on your floor. "Your place smells warm. Like coffee and paper. It's nice."